


When All Else Fails

by ultrapsychobrat



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 00:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrapsychobrat/pseuds/ultrapsychobrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 'The Fix' Hutch decides he can't be trusted.  Pre-slash, so no sex or naughty parts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When All Else Fails

When All Else Fails

 

“Damn!” Starsky swore in irritation and unjammed the typewriter keys for the sixth time in five minutes. Why did things always seem to go worst just when there was the least time to spare? Any other time.... Well, that wasn't exactly true. He prided himself on his ability to handle anything with four wheels, but man's other mechanical inventions, especially typewriters.... Thank God he didn't have to earn his living as a secretary.

“Starsky, you through with that report yet?” Harold Dobey stood at his shoulder, waiting impatiently for the paper work he needed.

“Just a sec, Cap'n.” Starsky glanced at his watch, typed in the time, ripped the paper from the machine, and scrawled his initials at the bottom. Gathering up the other sheets that littered the table around him, he clipped them into a haphazard pile and stood up.

“Here you go, Cap'n.” He thrust the stack of papers into Dobey's hand and hurried toward the door.

“Starsky! Get back here.”

Dobey's voice stopped him, but he had no intention of staying. There wasn't time to discuss anything right now. “I'll be in early tomorrow. Give you the whole story then.” Surely the captain understood that he'd left Hutch alone too long already.

“Is Hutch okay?” Dobey asked, his customary growl softening somewhat.

“Yeah, I think so.” _At least he's alive._ Starsky raised a hand in farewell and ducked out the door, all thoughts of work leaving his mind.

~~~~~~~~~

The drive to Hutch's from Metro took a little over thirty minutes when traffic was normal. Los Angeles, 3:00 P.M., Friday, was anything but normal. The freeways were jammed, bumper to bumper; the surface streets weren't much better. By the time he pulled up in front of the small cottage he was steaming with frustration and a nagging worry.

He ran up the steps, grabbed the key off the lintel, not bothering to knock, and unlocked the door. But he entered quietly, not wanting to wake Hutch if he were asleep. _And he damned well better be._ He replaced the key and closed the door softly behind him.

He glanced from the sofa to the bed at the far side of the room. Both were empty, and a niggle of unformed fear tried to surface.

“Hutch?” he called quietly and then louder, “Hutch?”

No answer.

“What the hell?” he murmured and walked over to peer into the empty bathroom.

“Hutch! You here?”

He hurried to the back door, hoping to see his partner sitting in one of the lawn chairs scattered about the yard, but no luck. Fighting down an edge of panic, he stared at the peaceful scene before him and tried to decide where Hutch might have gone. He didn't have a car—the lab boys were still going over it. But he could have taken a cab or the bus.... Maybe he'd returned to Huggy's for something. He refused to acknowledge the insidious thought that tugged at his mind, pulling him down to that nightmare place.

A quick call to Huggy told him that Hutch hadn't been there, and he hadn't been heard from. He hung up and took one more look around the house, as if he might have missed something. _Where are you, Hutch?_ Just then he heard the sound of a closing car door out front. He threw open the cottage door to see Hutch fastening the gate. A relief so profound that his knees almost gave way swept through him. The LTD, looking as decrepit as ever, was parked in front. Someone from the station had evidently brought it back while he'd been gone.

“Where the hell've you been?” he called as Hutch started up the sidewalk. Remembered worry made his voice sharper than he wanted.

“Where do you think?” Hutch answered, indicating the grocery bag he carried in one arm.

“I thought you were gonna get some sleep,” Starsky commented, his relief lending a note of accusation to his words.

“I got hungry, and there was nothing here to eat...if it's any of your business.”

Hutch pushed past him and entered the house, heading for the kitchen. Starsky closed the door again and leaned back against it, breathing carefully. “You could let a person know,” he muttered.

“What?” Hutch looked up from putting things away.

“I said,” Starsky repeated in a louder voice, “you could let a person know. I come bombing over here expecting to see you out for the count and find an empty house.”

“So what?” The clear blue eyes met his for a moment in puzzlement, then narrowed as understanding hit. For a minute Starsky thought he was going to be on the receiving end of the Hutchinson temper, but then his partner's shoulders slumped in exhaustion, and he merely shrugged. “Sorry. Guess I should've let you know.”

God! Hutch looked bad—worse than he had earlier that afternoon. Those bastards had really done a job on him. Maybe he ought to call a doctor. Careful to keep his voice casual, he asked, “How're you feeling?”

“Lousy,” came the flat reply.

“Why don't you go lie down? I'll fix you somethin' to eat.” He crossed to the kitchen and took the milk carton from Hutch's unresisting grasp. “What d'ya want?”

“Nothing.” Hutch wandered over to the bed and sat down on the edge.

“But you just said you were hungry.”

“So, I changed my mind, okay?”

Starsky regarded his partner's bowed head for a moment. Depression had settled around Hutch like a visible gray cloak. Maybe that was to be expected. The past couple of weeks had been one unending nightmare for him. And he wasn't out of the woods yet. “You should eat something.” He spoke quietly, being matter-of-fact and reasonable. This wasn't the time to push.

“Yeah, I know.” Hutch lay back on the bed, covering his eyes with one arm. “Anything,” he mumbled.

Starsky felt his stomach contract in panic at Hutch's dispirited remark—just a step away from giving into the need for a fix. What was he to do with him? It was obvious he wanted to be left alone, but that was something Starsky couldn't—wouldn't—do. Hutch needed his help now as much as before.

He returned to the kitchen and rumaged through the cupboards, coming up with a can of soup which he opened and dumped in a pan. He popped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster, and retrieved the butter from the refrigerator.

Ten minutes later the light meal was set on the table. “Come 'n get it!” he called cheerfully. There was no reply from the bed, and he walked to stand looking down at the sleeping man. “S'okay, partner,” he murmured. “Guess you need sleep more than my cooking.” He brushed the golden hair away from the care-lined brow, stroking gently down the faintly stubbled cheek. “We're gonna beat this thing, babe—I promise,” he whispered.

Finding an extra blanket in the closet, he spread it over Hutch and removed his shoes. Returning to the kitchen, he poured the cooling soup back into the pan, picked up a piece of toast, and sauntered over to flop onto the couch. Five o'clock, nothing to do but wait. Hutch would probably sleep right through till morning, but he'd stay just in case. No telling what the residual effects of the heroin addiction might be.

Goddamned bastards! He couldn't say he was sorry he'd wasted Monk and the other goon, except that it probably meant Forrest was gonna go free. Those two might have given Forrest up. But, of course, Ben Forrest was smart—he hadn't done any of the dirty work himself, and it was going to be hard to prove anything against him. Jeanne might be able to help, but she was no doubt out of town by now. Not that he blamed her—Forrest wouldn't be so easy on her a second time, and he'd be out on bail in twenty-four hours, probably never come to trial.

He glanced over at Hutch and shook his head. Crazy. Why'd he get mixed up with this woman in the first place? Stray cats and stray people.... Not for the first time he wondered at the friendship between himself and Hutch. They were as different as two people could possibly be, and yet they shared some kind of indefinable rapport which cut across all the obstacles, making them a team. It had been like that from the first day they'd met, five years ago. He couldn't imagine doing the work he did without Hutch. They held one another together, made it bearable. And even with that support, there were times when none of it seemed worthwhile. Like now. The ugliness they fought in the streets never stayed there—it spread and defiled everything it touched. A cop was always fair game; the sharks followed him home, and sometimes, if he wasn't very, very careful, they walked right in the front door.

~~~~~~~

For a few moments, Starsky wasn't sure what had awakened him. It felt late—that total stillness which falls upon the world in last hours before dawn. Then a soft sound reached him from the bed, and he was on his feet.

“Hutch?” he whispered as he made his way across the dark room. “You okay?” He stopped by the bed and turned on a lamp.

“Ohh...turn it off,” Hutch groaned and rolled over to bury his face in one of the pillows.

“Sorry,” Starsky apologized, switching off the light. He sat down gingerly on the side of the bed. “Can I get you something?”

“No,” came the muffled reply. “Leave me alone.”

Starsky sat for several minutes, uncertain of what to do. The harsh words were to be expected—withdrawal wasn't a quick thing. The brief glimpse of his partner's face he'd seen in the lamp light hadn't reassured him, either. Dark bruises of exhaustion ringed his eyes, and the tense lines of pain were still etched deeply. Maybe he was feeling the need of a fix—heroin didn't let go easily once it took hold. He thought again about calling a doctor.

Reaching out to touch Hutch's back, he asked quietly, “You sure you're okay?”

Hutch jerked away from his hand, moving across the bed to sit up on the opposite side. “Will you leave me the hell alone? What's the matter, afraid I'm going to run off looking for a quick fix?”

He watched the tense lines of Hutch's back. “I didn't—“

“Ah, shove it!” Hutch cut him short. “That's what you thought when I wasn't here this afternoon.”

Starsky felt the shift of weight on the bed as Hutch stood up. He switched on the lamp again.

This time Hutch made no verbal protest, though he did cover his eyes with one hand for a moment. When he removed it he turned to stare at Starsky accusingly. “That is what you thought, isn't it? That I was after a fix.?”

Standing up, Starsky met the angry glare unflinchingly. “Yeah, the thought did cross my mind. That shit's hard to shake.”

“Oh, great! That's just great! Now I guess you”ll spend all your time babysitting me to make sure I'm on the straight and narrow—no new needle marks to show off. Do I have to pass inspection before we start work every day, Sgt. Starsky? And how about weekends? You gonna assign someone to escort duty so I don't fall in with the wrong crowd? Or are you gonna do that yourself? My own private little—“

The past week hadn't been easy on Starsky, either. He'd spent days trying to find Hutch, every hour adding to the building panic. And when he'd found him in that filthy alley, he'd almost fainted with relief, but then the real horror had begun. The forty-eight hours of helping him through the worst of the withdrawal had been a nightmare he couldn't break free of. His Hutch, his always-stronger-than-anyone Hutch, helpless and at the mercy of something nothing but time could defeat.

He was tired and irritable and not particularly even tempered to begin with, and, now, as the sarcastic words continued to fall around him, his own anger surfaced in a loud explosion. “Goddamn it! What the hell's the matter with you? In case you've forgotten, I'm trying to help you! That junk still screwing up your brain?”

“Help me?” Hutch yelled back. “You call this help? I think you're the one with screwed up brain! Friends are supposed to trust one another, not sneak around spying on them. If you want to help, why don't you just go home? I don't need you!” He stalked around the end of the bed to stand menacingly close to Starsky, fists clinched at his sides, eyes blazing in anger.

Starsky returned the glare and then turned on his heel, heading for the door. He jerked it open and marched through without a backward glance, slamming it shut behind him. He reached the Torino and had actually started the engine before his temper cooled enough to let him think objectively.

Hutch had picked that fight, deliberately goaded him into losing his temper. Why? Something was really bothering his partner, and it had nothing to do with trust. Hutch knew as well as he did that someone on heroin wasn't always capable of controlling his need, and seventy-two hours wasn't enough time to know if he'd completely kicked the habit.

Starsky turned off the ignition key, and then sat thinking for a long time. What maggot was eating away at Hutch? Something bad enough to push away his best friend, bad enough to keep to himself.

The sky was beginning to lighten over the eastern horizon and was blindingly bright in the sky before he started the car again and drove to his apartment. He showered and changed, grabbed a quick bite of breakfast, and arrived at Metro five after eight.

~~~~~~~~

“How soon do you think Hutch'll be able to return to duty?”

Starsky shrugged one shoulder and continued to stare out the window of Dobey's office. L.A. was an ugly city. The smudgy brown pall of smog lay over everything, blurring details, washing out colors. There weren't any hills to vary the landscape of the downtown area, and the mountains to the north couldn't be seen through the haze of smog; there wasn't even the man-made skyline of a New York. Starsky turned away from the depressing view and wandered over to a chair.

“We gonna make the kidnap charge against Forrest stick?” he asked. By unspoken mutual agreement the heroin angle wasn't mentioned; he hadn't even included it in his report. If the boys over at Parker Center got wind of it, there'd be hell to pay. They took a dim view of cops on dope, no matter what the reason. That little episode would remain a family secret, forgotten as quickly as possible...he hoped.

It was Dobey's turn to shrug and look grim. Starsky's verbal recounting of the events surrounding the past few days hadn't added any useful information to what the captain already knew. “The D.A.'s office is holding back on filing. Not enough hard evidence. You think that girl might come forward?”

“Not a chance. She's scared silly, and if she's smart she's changed her name and run a long ways away from here.” He paused for a moment, then muttered, “Sonofabitch!”

“Yeah, I know, but there's nothing we can do without reliable witnesses. At least Hutch is okay. You look like you could use some rest yourself. Why don't you take Hutch somewhere for a couple of days so both of you can get back into shape?”

“I don't know if that's gonna work.”

“Why not?”

“Hutch thinks I'm spying on him. He threw me out.”

“That's just the dope talking. Get back over there and keep an eye on him.”

“I was going to.”

“Yeah, I thought you might. Enjoy your time off, and don't be late getting in here on Tuesday.”

“Sure,” Starsky agreed. “Be seein' ya. Oh, and Cap'n, thanks, okay?”

“Go on, get going,” Dobey rumbled mildly. “Some of us have to work.”

~~~~~~~~

It was noon when Starsky pulled his car in behind the battered, brown Ford. Hutch was here—good. But whether or not he would talk yet remained to be seen. He was determined to hang onto his own temper this time and find out what was eating at his partner. Dobey could be right, that it was only part of the drug withdrawal, but he wasn't so sure himself. There seemed to be something else, something he'd almost figured out this morning sitting in the car. It was all tied up with trust and trusting, but not like Hutch had said. He'd meant something else.

Starsky knocked lightly on the door. When there was no answer, he knocked again, louder.

“Who is it?” Hutch called irritably.

“Starsk. Open up.”

“Can't you take a hint?” The door opened, and Hutch stood leaning against the frame, blocking the way. “Come to check up on me again?”

“I wanna talk to you.” He kept his tone light, appealing to the years of friendship between them.

Hutch seemed about to shut the door in his face, but then abruptly turned away and walked back into the house. “Sure, why not?” His voice was tired and empty.

The lack of spirit bothered Starsky more than the earlier anger. He followed Hutch inside and closed the door, looking around the cluttered room and then back at his partner standing very still in front of the couch. Hutch was wearing the rumpled clothes in which he'd slept.

“You eat?” he asked quietly.

Hutch flopped down on the couch, leaned back, and closed his eyes. “Knock it off,” he said without empasis.

“What?”

“The mother hen routine. Just leave me alone.” He didn't open his eyes or change the tone of his voice.

“Afraid I can't do that.”

“Why not? Dobey assign you nursemaid duty?”

“You could say that, only I'd be here anyway.”

“Yeah,” Hutch acknowledged. “Well, what if I told you I don't want you here? That I want to be by myself?”

“You already did that.”

“So? Why'd you come back?”

“I care,” Starsky answered softly, sitting down on the sofa next to him. “You gonna tell me what's wrong?”

Hutch opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to Starsky's face. “That's what's wrong.”

“What? My face?” A feeling of impending doom suddenly weighed him down.

“It's no good, Starsk,” Hutch murmured, getting up to wander across the room to the kitchen bar. He leaned both hands on the tile and stood staring down at the floor.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Hutch swung about to face him, “that I'm quitting the force.”

Starsky leaped to his feet, covering the distance between them in a few quick steps. He felt the doom swallow him whole, as the finality of Hutch's tone reached him. “You can't be serious! Look. I know this thing with the heroin's been rough, but it's almost over. A couple more days, and you'll be fine. Dobey said we oughta get out of town for a while, and I think he's right. You pack a few things and we'll stop by my place to get my gear and we'll be on our way. How about San Diego? We could—“

“Stop! Please. I'm not going anywhere with you. Just go home, huh?

The haunted blue eyes sought and held his, a silent plea for understanding reaching out to him. But there was too much at stake for Starsky just to walk away. He needed to know what this was all about. How was he going to stop Hutch when he didn't know what was happening?

“I'm not leaving,” he informed Hutch adamantly, “so you'd better get used to it. I asked you to tell me what's wrong, and all I get is some stupid shit about quitting the force. Why?”

“I don't want to talk about it. Stay if you want; I'm going out.”

He'd only taken a couple of steps, when Starsky grabbed his arm and roughly pulled him around. “You're not going anywhere 'til you tell me what the fuck this is all about. Now, talk!”

“What the hell do you think you're doing? Let go of me!”

A brief struggle ensued, but Hutch's weakened condition was no match for Starsky's relatively healthy state. He ended up sprawled on the couch, arms pinned against his sides.

“Let go of me.”

“Not 'til you tell me why you're quitting,” Starsky said calmly, still holding onto Hutch's arms.

“It's none of your business,” Hutch muttered.

Starsky studied the ravaged face before him for several moments in silence. He noted the determined set to the jaw and the mulish look in the eyes. Slowly he released his hold on Hutch's arms and stepped back from the couch. “You're right. It's none of my business. Just because I happen to love you more than any other person in the whole goddamned world doesn't give me any rights at all. That's my problem, right? So you just go ahead and play the strong, silent type. Don't worry about it. You do what you think you should. See you around, partner.”

Starsky walked slowly toward the door, ears intent for any sound from Hutch. He was counting on the years of friendship and love, counting on Hutch's well-developed guilt complex when he thought he was being unfair. He was almost to the door when he heard his name called softly. He turned back to the room to see Hutch slumped over, elbows resting on knees, head cradled in hands.

“I'm sorry.”

The words were low and filled with a hopeless despair that tore at Starsky's heart. He walked quickly over to the couch and sat down next to Hutch, pulling the hurting man into his arms, rocking him slightly. The tense shoulders eased some and Hutch slumped against him, burying his face in Starsky's neck.

“Come on, babe, tell me what's wrong,” he prompted gently.

“I threw her to the sharks—told Forrest where she was, and I didn't even care. A needle full of junk was the only thing that mattered. Oh, God!” Hutch clung to him with desperate hands. “I couldn't think, didn't want to think. Jeanne didn't mean anything to me except the price of a fix. I never thought—“

“Hey,” Starsky broke in, tightening his hold on Hutch, “you're not to blame for that. You couldn't help what the dope did to you. And it turned out okay—Jeanne wasn't hurt and you beat the junk. I know it was terrible, but it's over.” He felt Hutch's muscles grow rigid again.

Eyes filled with anguish met his. “No! It's not over 'til I resign.”

“You're not thinking straight, babe. What happened, happened. You can't change it by quitting.”

“Maybe not, but I can make sure nothing like it ever happens again. Next time the person depending on me might not be so lucky.” Hutch pulled away from him and stood up. “I couldn't take that.”

Starsky watched in silence as Hutch wandered over to the back door and stood looking out on the sunlit scene. He felt a little surprised that it was still full daylight. The blackness of Hutch's mood had seemed to spread a cloud of darkness over the world.

The heroin addiction and withdrawal had depleted Hutch's mental reserves as well as his physical strength. He was going on sheer nervous energy, incapable of seeing anything in perspective. There had to be someway to reach him, to make him see the senselessness of quitting over something that wasn't even his fault. And Starsky knew he had to find the right thing to say or do now, before Hutch had a chance to convince himself. But reasoning with him didn't seem to be the way. “Don't you think you're getting sorta carried away with this whole thing?” he asked in a deliberately scornful tone.

Hutch turned to look at him, but didn't answer.

Standing up, Starsky went on. “I mean, you act like you had some choice in the situation. It's over, done. Why don't you just forget it?”

“How can I forget? Don't you understand? I could've gotten Jeanne killed. She's safe now because Forrest only wanted her back. But next time—“

“What next time?” Starsky interrupted sharply. “You plannin' on getting' kidnapped and turned into a junkie again? You know that's not likely to happen. What is it you're really afraid of?”

“Starsk,” a note of desperation entered Hutch's voice, “that could've been you Forrest wanted—to kill! I could've given you to someone who wanted to kill you! What if—“ Hutch's voice broke and tears slid down his haggard face.

“Oh, babe, it didn't happen.” Starsky crossed to stand in front of his partner, reaching out to wipe away the tears with his thumb. “You think you're Mr. Perfect, you know, and when something like this comes along and shows you you're human just like the rest of us, you don't know how to handle it. So, you're not immune to heroin? So what? No one can control every situation all the time. We can only do the best we can, and hope it's enough. Don't you think I have nightmares, too? Don't you think I want to quit sometimes? I keep doing what we do because you're there with me. What if next time you're not there to keep the goons off my back? How're you gonna live with that?”

“You're not being fair,” Hutch murmured and turned away.

“Yeah, well, I guess that's something we have in common—that and selfishness.”

A long silence fell across the room. Starsky suddenly felt very tired and discouraged. What was the point? Maybe Hutch would be doing the smart thing to get out while he could. Maybe he ought to do the same. The odds weren't in their favor—someday, one of them would make that small mistake that would spell death for the other. How could he blame Hutch for not wanting to buy that kind of hell?

“You really think I'm being unfair?” Hutch finally asked without looking at him.

“I don't know,” Starsky muttered, shaking his head. “Doesn't make any difference anyway. You got a right to do what you want, only....” He fell silent, wishing they were somewhere else, some other time.

Hutch crossed to stand in front of him. “Only what?”

 _Only what...what? We belong together? I need you? Don't leave me? How do I go on, if you're not here to keep me safe? To keep me strong?_ “Sit down and listen, okay?”

Hutch sat.

“Sometimes,” Starsky began slowly, “other people can see you better than you can see yourself. Right now's one of those times. For some reason you think this thing with Forrest and the heroin means you can't be trusted anymore, that you're some kind of traitor or something. No one is blaming you for anything, not even Jeanne. We all know you held out as long as you could, probably longer than anyone else would've.” He sat, facing Hutch, placing a hand on his shoulder. “And you said you couldn't think, that you were out of your head. What is it you think you should have done that you didn't?”

Hutch remained silent for a long time, studying his hands. Finally he gave a small shrug and shook his head.

“Exactly. You know, Hutch, you really do expect too much from yourself. You're a good cop, you care about what happens to people, and that makes a difference to them. It makes a difference to me, too. I guess I am a selfish bastard, but I don't want to quit, and if you do, I will.” He slid his hand around to the back of Hutch's neck.

“You'd get another partner.”

“No. We make it 'cause we're together.”

Hutch looked at him sharply. “Don't try to lay this on me, Starsk. You did just fine before I came along.”

Yeah, he'd done just fine all those years ago. But he'd been a different person then. Being a cop had been his whole life—teamed with a partner, alone, it hadn't mattered. His own drive had supplied all the motivation needed. But time changed all things, especially people. The years had brought pain and disillusionment. The good guys always ended up with short end of the stick—the knight seldom slew the dragon these days. But somehow he and Hutch managed to keep on keeping on, even managed to make one another believe they were doing some good.

“Maybe I've grown up some since then, or just gotten old. All I know is I'm not brave enough anymore to put myself on the line without knowing there's someone who cares about me to even the odds and make it worthwhile.”

Hutch glanced away for a moment and then met his eyes again, self-doubt fighting a losing battle with the open appeal he found there. “Together, huh?”

“Yep.”

“Well,” Hutch sighed in resignation, “I guess it's cops. You couldn't be anything else but a crook, and I'd hate to think I led you into a life of crime.”

Starsky grinned and breathed a quiet sigh of his own. “Come on!” He jumped up, hauling Hutch to his feet. “Let's get going. Have you ever been to the Wild Animal Park in San Diego? They've got these lions brought over from—“

“I don't like zoos,” Hutch interrupted in mild protest.

“This one's different. No bars, no cages—just open space and animals. Be kind of like goin' on safari. Me Bwana!”

“You idiot.”

“But lovable.”

Hutch smiled and shook his head in bemused tolerance. “Yeah, there is that, I guess.”

It'd do for now. Starsky knew his friend well enough to be sure all the doubts weren't ended. But at the moment, he'd take this as a victory and trust time to work out the rest. Time had been pretty good to them, so far.


End file.
